The Journal of J Heisler
by Brad Heisler
Summary: This is taken from a journal I found in my grandparents' attic. I'm pretty sure it's fiction and it resembles the writings of H. P. Lovecraft, hence being in the Misc. Books section. I'll copy more of it to my computer if people are interested in it.
1. Chapter 1

**This is not my work, and I do not take credit for this story or whatever part of it I actually throw up here. I found, in my grandparents' attic, a journal. It had no name on the cover, nor, from what I have read so far, did it ever reference the narrator's name. The closest thing I have to recognize who wrote this is "J. H. II" which was written on the front. I am going to assume that the "H" represents Heisler seeing as how it was found in my family's attic but I can't be sure.**

**Regardless, I also can't tell if this is meant to be an actual account or a fictional story. I'm going to assume it's the latter seeing as how there are people and places here that I can't find any record of and because of the incredibly ridiculous material and the questionable sanity of the author. But hey, anything's possible, right?**

**Oh, and this is only the first "chapter". It's pretty tiresome and time consuming to transfer an entire journal to the computer so I'm going to do it in intervals, in between writing other stories, doing schoolwork, playing guitar, wasting myself away in front of my TV and making movies. If anybody likes it though, I'll chuck up more of it on here, just promise you won't go crazy. :)**

* * *

I am, in fact, the most horribly unfortunate human being I have ever come across. Even those that started journeying alongside me and lay dead now because of our travels are men of greater fortune than I.

While they reside in their peaceful oblivion, every moment I spend on this infinitesimal sphere, waking or asleep, I am plagued by visions of the unbearable horros I've seen these past years. Or was it years? Could it have merely been months? Weeks? Days even? Perhaps I wandered the chaos and the infinity for decades, centuries, millenia. Maybe even for aeons, I cannot say.

Regardless, I would, beyond all doubt, be better off cold and motionless at the bottom of broken underground catacombs, meant for a race far greater than the meek and unimportant homo sapiens, along with my college Dr. Carl Brooks, than cataloguing what I've been through on my ventures. I would rather be swimming in the very same unfathomable cosmos that swallowed Gregory Stone and gladly would I replace the bones of Malcolm Stephens that lay perhaps in the ruins of temples devoted to infinite abominations, perhaps inside the ancient things themselves.

Even as I write this now, the introduction to my tale, visions of the unbelievable slither across my eyes. The madness that washes over me, sometimes in the middle of the night and when the sun is high in the sky alike, has consumed my life. Nothing at all has offered me an escape from these constant nightmares. No drug nor pleasurably company can drive away the ghosts of my dead friends nor the insanity and feelings of impending dread.

I am telling you of all my sufferings solely because I which to spare you the same fate I am living through. I strongly urge you, no, I beg of you, put this journal down, continue your daily life oblivious to the worlds and dimensions beyond our own. Save yourself by ignoring my tale.

If you refuse my warnings and pursue answers to questions better left dead or unborn then know this: you are damning yourself. I shall not take responsibility for the things that will attack you, mentally or physically, after you turn this page.


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay well, here is the next section of the journal of JH II.**

* * *

Even before the four of us set sail for damnation I was plagued by the occult. I had worked for years at an antique store as assistant manager. The owner of the store and my mentor was an elderly Mr. Arthur Baier. He had an obsession with the weird and the obscene, constantly collecting rare relics and mad artifacts. He shared with me every bit of his fascination although a number of his talismans provokes more headaches than they did understanding and many of the tomes, especially the ones he had describes as "darker", were written in script and sign that is probably better left off not knowing. 

Through his studies I learned much valuable information: how to cure a scorbutic with some common household ingredients, how to tell what type of misfortune a raven is predicting and which graves will give rise to a ghoul when the moon is high and the air is grim, among other things.

Being the assistant of Mr. Baier, I partook in a multitude of his bleak and grisly experiments. No matter the result, if the test ended in bubbles, fire or blood, he would write it down in his own dark journal, as I am recording the story of my own trials.

The book had in it not just tests and science but the dark and macabre, information men would kill for and then use to kill others simply because that is the way men are. In the dusty pages of his records was the location of the fabled city of Seyombe, the word of prophecy from the ancient Pravmortuuhotep, of the Egyptian lore, incantations that can manifest pure evil in the flesh of the living, and much information on an ancient deity, Haud-Perac, an entity that Mr. Baier always shied away from when inquired.

All the information stored in that black diary owe it a spot next to the other legendary dark tomes. In fact, Mr. Baier kept his journal on a hidden bookshelf in between the Al Azif and the Book of Dyzan.

All of his property, his collections, his books, his store and most importantly, his journal, were all passed down to me two days prior to his death by heart attack. I was in too much grieving back then to realize the horribly obvious truth, but now that I view it with a more or less clear head, I see I was painfully wrong. A heart attack is much too convenient. No, if I had to surmise, I'd say that Mr. Baier died in pursuit of a great answer beyond comprehension and that had led to his death.

But perhaps the most curious thing about the entire matter would be that the pages of his journal involving the ancient deity Haud-Perac, and his brothers, if one could call them that, Kthultut, Hub Nigguroth and Log-Sutot, were all torn out. Though, at the time, I had not realized this. Looking back over my tale, perhaps a lack of information of these ancient abominations saved my life. Perhaps I would have died and taken my tale with me to my early grave rather than infect myself, my family and whoever is misfortunate enough to read this with madness.

Regardless things happened the way they did and however much I get pulled at by my own mind, if it really is just my mind attacking me, I must press forward and tell my tale to the end.

At the death of the great Mr. Baier, I turned back towards my great friend Gregory Stone for support, not just in life but in the continuation of my studies. He had been more disgusted in the occult than I was fascinated by it but he stuck with me, presumably to regrow and preserve the friendship we had shared since childhood.

Regardless, we carried out our experiments and research and the such until we piqued the interest of long time customer to the store, Dr. Carl Brooks. Dr. Brooks was also a fan of the mad although, as opposed to Gregory and I, had a far larger collection of maps than he had books and frequently trekked across the globe, gathering tidbits and treasures from everywhere he visited.

His showroom of rare antiquities was far more interesting than he was, far he was an ugly person inside and out and disgusted us with his arrogant behavior. Despite his attitude, Dr. Brooks convinced Gregory and I to go with him on the greatest of all his journeys. We were to quest for a world beyond our own. Exhaust every source we had until we found how to reach a dimension beyond our own.

Mr. Baier's journal had made several references to passages to the other sides, but where they lead to was never given exactly. Where they were located though, was given by rough coordinates on nameless maps with only vague drawings of landmarks to guide us.

We all prepared, Gregory, Dr. Brooks, a man by the name of Malcolm Stephens, whom had a personality infinitely better than that of Carl Brooks, and I, over the next few months after the idea was set in our minds.

Over the course of that time we readied ourselves with books, a supply of...

* * *

**I'm sorry about the cut off, but I can't read the next couple pages of it. Not that I don't want to, because believe me, I do, but theres a big brown stain covering up just about everything on these pages. There's a couple sections of it where I can make out some of the words, but other than that, I'm stumped. So, the best thing I can do is give you what it is that I can read. Again, I'm sorry, and it drives me crazy, especially because I have the book and all the answers here, just hidden underneath this stupid spot of whatever-it-is. Well, this is all I can make out of it. Sorry.

* * *

**

wanted to bring a cross...

in the books...

darkness beyond comprehension...

bible...

found out about our plans...

I did not want to kill him but we were bound...

"David, I'm sorry...

bloody mess...

recreate Mr. Baier's experiment...

passages that evoked things not meant to...

wouldn't stay dead...

buried him a second time...

again he...

smashed upside the head...

glowing eyes...

snatched at his throat...

razor sharp nails digging into his...

then he produced a gun and shot him...

* * *

**Ho-lee c-rap. Definitely fiction, right? I sure hope so. Anyway, that's all I'm going to give you for now. Its hard enough reading J. H.'s handwriting, then I have to type it up and its a big pain in my ass. Sorry for the cliff hanger ending on this chapter and all that. You'll get over it eventually. :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Ok, it's been a while and here's the next section.

* * *

**

...you all along. Regardless, back to important matters. We couldn't stay long enough to see whether or not he was dead for good. He had been with us for a week before the last incident and sooner or later we would be questioned. So we fled on one of Dr. Brooks' many boats in the middle of the night.

Our course was set for a region in Central Africa where, according to Mr. Baier's journal, an ancient city resided, consisting of many dark secrets. Whether or not anything could be found there anymore was questionable but it was the easiest location in the journal to identify and the long trip to get there would allow me ample time to decode more of my mentor's mysterious studies.

I don't remember how much time it took for us to reach sight of land, but I do recall how I thought the time spent was _maddening_. How naive I was!

Along the journal across the Atlantic Sea, I determined where several of the supposed interdimensional portals were located. The maps provided in the journal and by Dr. Brooks pointed towards Egypt, Central America, Scotland, the North Eastern United States, various places all across Asia and strangely enough, a point in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. There was no island at that location on any of the maps we brought with us, but it was marked as a riff in space in the journal.

After locating these locations, general vicinities actually, I grew tired of the monotonous searching for the time being and turned my mind elsewhere.

Before this point, the thought of what type of doctor Brooks was had never occured to me. Upon inquiry, he would shy away from the topic. When pressed enough about it, he broke out yelling and screaming at me. I spent the rest of the boat ride avoiding him after that.

Several times at night as we drifted aimlessly through the sea I thought I heard signing. It echoed through the night fog.

I'd like to apologize. I've been distracted lately. Thinking about the sea trip has brought the waves back, crashing into the stern of my mind. The singing of the sirens tugging at my conscious, anchoring me down into confusion and chaos.

I must fight it.

I must fight it.

I must fight it.

It was alluring, to say the least. So much so that when all others had fallen victim to drowsiness, I had been captured and lay awake listening to the heavenly voices. They called my name, tugged at my soul.

I resisted the urge for a while, as long as I could bear to, but one night, I succumbed to the sound and tipped myself overboard to meet it.

My memory is shaky and I cannot say I recall much of what had happened that night.

I remember the water being sucked into my mouth and filling my lungs. It pushed me around, drowning me, lifting me up out of the sea, and I fought none of it. I simply continued to let the sirens pull me in.

The next thing I can remember happening was being pulled away by Gregory. Something must have tried to stop him from taking me for the next morning it was revealed he had several deep gashes all along his face, chest and back. Nobody else seemed to remember much of the events either. I met only with puzzled looks when I questioned what happened.

The remainder of this part of our journey I spent wandering the boat at night, talking with Gregory and Malcolm about various rituals and what could possibly be hiding in the heart of the African jungle.

Days past, years past, minutes, seconds, months, hours all past.

Then we were there, washing upon an African shoreline. It was no beach, only rock but it would be adequate.

* * *

**Hopefully it won't be long until I put more up here for the five of you that actually read this.**


End file.
